


The Bridgerton Eight

by dumbledearme



Category: Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: 1950s, Modern AU, Novella, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 03:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13755375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbledearme/pseuds/dumbledearme
Summary: Nothing here belongs to me. I take no credit. This is based on The Duke And I, The Viscount Who Loved Me, An Offer From A Gentleman, Romancing Mister Bridgerton, To Sir Philip With Love, On The Way To The Wedding and It’s In His Kiss, all books by Julia Quinn. I’m only using her characters and her story to have some fun.This is a modern version of these eight books, all mixed together, happening in the 50′s. I hope you guys like it.





	1. Prologue—The Pie

1924

“Violet Elizabeth Ledger! What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

At the sound of her mother’s outraged voice, Violet stopped, considering her options. There was little chance she could plead complete innocence since she had been caught red-handed. 

Or rather, purple-handed. She was clutching a breathtakingly aromatic blackberry pie in the narrow corridors of her house.

“Violet!”

She could say that she was hungry. Mother knew well enough that Violet was mad for sweets. It was not entirely out of the realm of possibility that she might abscond with an entire pie, to be eaten... Where? 

Violet thought quickly. Where would one go with an entire blackberry pie? Not back to her room; she’d never be able to hide the evidence. And her mother would never believe Violet was dumb enough to do that. No, if she were stealing a pie in order to eat it, she would take it outside. Which was precisely where she’d been going. Although not exactly to eat it...

She might make a truth of this lie yet.

Violet walked back into the living room just as her mother was saying, “Where are you going with that pie?” 

Violet smiled and batted her eyes well aware that her angelic face would make her mother think twice before raising her voice. “I’m having a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Mother repeated in disbelief. “With whom?” 

“Oh, you know, Sonia and Fiona are most likely waiting for me...” Violet waved away not wanting to name a location. Details were no good in lies. The devil is in the details, her father liked to say.

“Violet,” Mother said sternly, “return that pie to the kitchen at once. You don’t even have a utensil with which to cut yourself a piece. How will you eat it?”

True. But Violet’s ambitions for the pie had not required utensils of any kind. “I couldn’t carry it all. I was planning to go back for a spoon.”

Mother was about to answer when Violet’s father came into the living-room carrying a newspaper under his arm and a pipe in his right hand. “Violet, what on earth are you doing in the living-room with a pie?”

“Precisely what I’m presently attempting to ascertain,” Mother said. 

“Well...” Violet stalled. She was sunk now. Mother was one thing, but she’d never be able to fib to her father. He saw through everything. Violet didn’t know how he did it, but he could read his daughter like an open book.

“Violet,” her father said sternly, “what were you planning to do with that pie?”

“Ehm...” Her eyes couldn’t seem to leave a spot on the floor about six feet to her left.

“Violet?”

“It was only going to be a small trap,” she mumbled.

“A small what?”

“A trap.” She looked at him now. “For that Bridgerton boy.”

“For—” Her father chuckled. She could tell he hadn’t meant to, and after he covered his mouth with a hand and a cough, his face was once again stern.

“He’s horrid,” she added before he could scold her.

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Mother said.

“He’s dreadful!” Violet exclaimed with passion. “You know that he is. Fiona always says you’d think he would know how to behave properly since he’s the heir to BCorp, but honestly—”

“Violet...”

“He’s ridiculous!” she stomped her foot down.

“He’s just a boy,” Mother said. “He’s fifteen years old—”

“Sixteen,” Violet corrected primly. “And it’s my opinion that a sixteen-year-old boy should to know how to behave like a gentleman.” Violet would have very much liked to cross her arms to finish making her point, but she was still holding that accursed pie.

“Give me the pie,” her mother ordered.

“He should treat me with the respect I deserve,” Violet protested.

“The pie, Violet.”

She handed it to her mother, who took the pie back to the kitchen all the way saying something under her breath that sounded strangely like teenage drama queens. 

“He put flour in my hair!” Violet told her father. 

“Flowers?” he echoed. 

“Flour, Father! Flour! The kind one uses to bake cakes! I had to wash my hair for twenty minutes just to get it out. And don’t you laugh!”

“I’m not!”

“You are,” she accused. 

“I’m merely wondering how the young fellow managed it.”

“I don’t know,” Violet ground out. Which was the worst insult of all. He’d managed to cover her with finely ground flour and she still didn’t know how he’d done it. One minute she’d been walking in the garden, and the next she’d tripped and flour was everywhere.

“Well,” her father said matter-of-factly, “he’ll be sent back to school as soon as the summer ends. You won’t have to endure his presence for very much longer. If at all,” he added. 

“Were you listening to me?” she said in a very girly tone of voice. “He threw flour all over me!”

Father considered that. “How do you know it was he?”

“Oh, I know,” she said darkly. As she was sputtering and coughing and batting at the flour cloud, she’d heard him cackling in triumph. If she hadn’t had so much flour in her eyes, she probably would have seen him, too, grinning in that awful boy way of his. “He’s ridiculous!” she said again, angry at the mere memory. 

Her father sighed. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, princess, but it’s a lesson in life you’ll learn soon enough: boys are ridiculous.”

She blinked. “But... but... You’re a boy.”

“And I was ridiculous, too, I assure you. Ask your mother.”

Violet stared at him in disbelief. Her parents had known each other since they were small children, but she could not believe that her father would ever have behaved badly toward her mother. He was so kind and thoughtful. He was always kissing her hand and smiling at her with his eyes.

“He probably likes you,” Father said. “The Bridgerton boy.”

Violet let out a horrified gasp. “He does not!”

“Well, perhaps not,” her father said agreeably. “Perhaps he is simply ridiculous. But he probably thinks you’re pretty. Boys are even more ridiculous when they meet a pretty girl. You know,” he stepped closer and touched her gently on the chin, “if this boy... what did you say his name was, again?”

“Edmund.”

“Edmund, right, of course. If Edmund Bridgerton bothers you again, I shall personally call upon him to defend your honor, my little princess.”

“In a duel?” Violet joked.

“To the death,” her father confirmed. “Or perhaps just a stern talking-to. I’d really rather not go to jail for murdering a fifteen-year-old boy.”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen. You do seem to know a lot about him.”

Violet opened her mouth to defend herself when she realized that her father was teasing her. “May I go back to my room now?” she asked primly.

He nodded his assent. “But there will be no pie for you this evening.”

Violet’s mouth fell open. “But—”

“No arguments, princess. You were quite prepared to sacrifice the pie this afternoon. It didn’t seem as if you were looking forward to eating it.”

Violet clamped her lips together in a mutinous line. She gave a stiff nod, then marched away toward the stairs. “I hate Edmund Bridgerton!” she yelled. “I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!”

Her father laughed, which only made her more furious.

Boys really were ridiculous. Especially the ones called Bridgerton.  
***

“I tell you what, Violet,” Fiona said with unconvincing certitude, “it is a good thing we are not raving beauties. It would make everything so complicated.”

From where Violet was standing (at the wall, with the wallflowers, watching the girls who weren’t wallflowers), ravishing beauty didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

“Look at her.” Fiona pointed at one popular girl with golden hair. “She’s got eight boys at her side, hovering over her like vultures.”

“Nine,” Violet corrected.

Fiona crossed her arms. “I refuse to include my own brother.”

“How long have we been standing here?” Sonia wondered aloud.

“Three quarters of an hour,” Violet estimated.

“That long?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“There aren’t enough boys in this ball,” Fiona said. "Not to mention half of the ones who are here, only have eyes for her!” and she pointed again as if that was necessary. 

Sonia, on the other hand, was presently squinting at someone over by the lemonade table. “Who’s that?” 

Violet looked over her shoulder. “Ashbourne, I think.”

“No, not Ashbourne,” Sonia said impatiently. “The one next to him.”

Violet looked again, but the boy in question had his back at her and she couldn’t see him properly. “I don’t know.” He was very tall and seemed perfectly at ease in his own body. Everyone of his movements were made with grace and confidence, something not normal for someone his size. 

"Who cares anyway,” Fiona said dryly. “Soon he’ll find his way to her.” And this time she didn’t even bother pointed her finger to signaled who she meant. 

But the boy in question didn’t seem to notice the blond girl in the middle of the ballroom. He loitered by the lemonade table, drinking a crazy amount of lemonade and gobbling down an astonishing amount of food. Which sort of made Violet hungry. She excused herself and made her way to the lemonade table, trying to be discreet, trying not to call his attention, and at the same time, trying desperately to see his face—

“Violet Ledger!” he exclaimed upon seeing her and Violet almost fell backwards in surprise. Edmund Bridgerton was standing in front of her, his hands filled with canapés, and a nice smile on his face. “Didn’t expect to find you here, but since it’s happened, I’d like to take the moment to apologize for the flour bomb.” And he shoved another canapé into his mouth like they were old friends or something. 

Violet blinked, somewhat taken aback by his gregarious amiability. "I had already forgotten that,” she lied. 

He placed a hand over his heart and feigned pain. “I’m crushed,” he said with his mouth still full. “But, seriously, I wish you could’ve seen your face...” he laughed. 

“I couldn’t have seen anything. I had flour in my eyes.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” He turned serious. “I was surprised you never exacted revenge.”

“I tried,” she assured him. “My father caught me.”

He grinned. “I hope it was something magnificent.”

“It involved pie,” she revealed it. “It would have been brilliant.”

He nodded approvingly. “Strawberry?”

“Blackberry,” she said, her voice diabolical.

“Even better.” He leaned back on the table, making himself comfortable. There was something so loose and limber about him, as if he fit smoothly into any situation. Violet found herself smiling along with him. He was contagious. She suddenly felt happy because he was happy. Free. It took only a minute at his side to realize that he was the most happy and free person she would ever meet.

“Did you ever find the opportunity to put your weapon to use?” he asked. “On anybody else?”

“I don’t attack without provocation,” Violet said with what she hoped was a teasingly arch smile. “And nobody else ever unnerved me like you.”

He seemed to like that. “A fair-minded lady. The very best kind.”

Violet felt her cheeks turn ridiculously warm and prayed silently he wouldn’t notice.

Edmund leaned toward her with a flirtatious tilt of his head. And for the first time, she felt like she had someone’s utter attention. He never looked around, never noticed the crowd or looked for someone more interesting to talk to. He had eyes for her only and it was frighteningly spectacular. 

“My sister, Billie, was terribly fair when single as well,” he said. “If I remember correctly, her vengeances almost always ended with something being set on fire or a broken bone.”

Violet tried to smother a laugh, but it burst out of her, loud and lovely, and when she realized people were staring at her, she didn’t care.

"Dance with me, Miss Ledger,” he said unexpectedly. 

Violet look at him, her eyes setting on the boy she used to hate and she was able to look away. Not from his face, and not from the life that stretched in front of her, as perfect and lovely as that blackberry pie.

And his eyes... oh, his eyes were filled with promises and she wanted to hear every single one of them.


	2. Chapter One—Congrats on the Jawline

November 24th, 1944

Anthony Bridgerton was the heir to an old family business. Founded by merchant ancestors of the Bridgerton family in the 17th century as a merchant house, Bridgerton Corporation or BCorp was among the oldest companies of Great Hamptons. The company began as a dozen minor businesses, started on the outskirts of town, and ended up originating and building to some extent great part of the city which was now known as the Great Hamptons. 

Anthony’s great-grandfather officially made BCorp a corporate company in the 19th century, erecting Bridgerton Shipping, Bridgerton Chemical and Bridgerton Manufacturing. All these companies were energized by the world’s Industrial Revolution and, after that, more branches were created and diversified while others dwindled and were discarded. Along the years, BCorp developed from a merchant house to a large multinational conglomerate company, exceeding Global Hastings and St. Clair Enterprises. And then, under the control of Edmund Bridgerton, Anthony’s dad, BCorp became a “green company” and environmentally conscious from that time forward. 

It was a damn big shoe for him to step in at eighteen years of age. 

Not that Anthony had ever been pressured to take on the role; on the contrary, really, his parents had never imposed him with the responsibility. However, he felt its weight all the same. 

The Bridgertons met when very young and married fresh out of high school starting their life together at the Bridgerton Manor. They sensible and they were strong, and they expressed their love for each other with a fierceness and devotion that was rarely seen in their social circles. Much to her own mother’s horror, Violet insisted upon nursing the boy herself and Edmund never subscribed to the prevailing attitude that fathers should neither seen nor heir their children. He took the little one on long hikes across the fields and told him a bedtime story every night. 

Not long after, and not taking anyone by surprise, just two years after Anthony’s birth, he was joined by a younger brother, christened Benedict. Edmund immediately adjusted his daily routine to take two sons on his hikes. They walked across fields and streams, and he told them of wondrous tales about knights in shining armor and damsels in distress. And as soon as they were back in Bridgerton Manor, Violet would receive them at the door and Edmund would say, “See? Here is our damsel in distress. Clearly we must protect her.”

And Anthony would throw himself into his mother’s arms, giggling as he swore he’d protect her from harm. 

“Heavens above,” Violet would always say, “what would I do without my three brave knights to protect me?”

“Two,” Anthony corrected her every time. “Benedict’s just a baby.” 

“But he’ll grow up just as you did, Tony, and just as you still will.” 

Edmund always treated his children with equal affection and devotion, but when Anthony was presented with the Bridgerton pocket watch on his eighth birthday (a very important family heirloom), he began to think that his relationship with his father was just a little bit special. Not because Edmund loved him best, but because he’d known him the longest, and always would, no matter how many sons and daughters the Bridgertons decided to have. 

And Edmund was, quite simply, the very center of Anthony’s world. He was tall, strong and smart, and could ride a horse as if he’d been born in the saddle. He always knew the answers to arithmetic questions, he helped his sons to build a treehouse, and his laugh was the sort that warmed a body from the inside out. Edmund taught Anthony how to ride, to swim, to drive. He took him to Eton (the oldest university of Great Hamptons) himself assuring him that everything would be alright. And it was. Anthony knew it would be; his father, after all, never lied. 

Fact: Anthony loved his mother and would probably give an arm for her. But growing up, everything he did, every accomplishment, every goal, every single hope and dream, it was all for his father. Who, sadly, was taken from him too early in life. 

It happened soon after the trip to Eton. Anthony was eighteen and it was the summer before college, so he was taking the time to be a boy, staying out late, having two girlfriends at once, the works. Life couldn’t be better then. He had been accepted both at Eton and Harvard (he chose the former because it was where his father had gone to college), he had discovered women and, perhaps more splendidly, they had discovered him. His parents were still happily reproducing, having added Colin, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory e Hyacinth. It wasn’t common to have that many children (for god’s sake it was the forties! People were at war!), but Anthony dared not to question anything Edmund did. 

He was coming home after a crazy night with a girl who had obvious daddy issues and aspired to be a yoga instructor (what a great night!). The sun had barely come out when he drove up the their parents state. But he never got the chance to really get home. The ambulance should’ve given it away that something wasn’t right, but what really caught Anthony’s attention was his thirteen-years-old sister sitting on the steps to the front door, which was opened behind her. She sat perfectly erect, like a statue, while tears silently streamed down her face. That’s what struck him as odd for Daphne never, ever cried.

“Daff,” he said hesitantly; he never knew what to do when girls cried and doubt he’d ever learn. “What—” But before he could finish his question, Daphne lifted her head and the shattering heartbreak in her large brown eyes cut through him like a knife. He stumbled back a step, knowing something was wrong, terribly wrong.

“He’s dead,” she whispered. “Daddy’s dead.” 

For a moment Anthony was sure he’d misheard. His father couldn’t be dead. People who died young were small and frail. That wasn’t Edmund Bridgerton. 

“Eloise said that… She said that…” 

Anthony knew he shouldn’t shake his sister, but he couldn’t help himself. “Said what, Daphne?” 

“A bee,” she said. “He was stung by a bee.” 

Anthony could do nothing but stare at her. “A bee can’t kill a man,” he said, his voice hoarse and barely recognizable. No. No, a bee couldn’t kill a man unless he was allergic or something. But… Edmund had been stung before. Anthony had been with him then. They had both been stung. No, that couldn’t be true. A bee couldn’t kill a man! 

“Eloise saw it,” Daphne said like she had read his mind. “One minute he was fine, and the next he was… he was…” 

Anthony felt something very strange building within him, as if his muscles were about to jump through his skin. He left Daphne sitting on the steps and ran inside the house, taking the stairs three at a time. But he already knew it was true. The entirety of Bridgerton Manor, which was usually loud and messy and fun, was quiet and grim. He met no one in the hallways. And when he reached his father’s bedroom, he caught sight of his mother sitting on the edge of the bed, not weeping, not making any sound, and not moving either, just holding his father’s hand as the group of paramedics gathered their things, ready to leave. And his father… Edmund Bridgerton was still. 

“Mom?” he choked out. “What happened?” 

She turned, slowly, as if hearing his voice through a long, long tunnel. “I don’t know,” she said. Her lips remained parted by an inch or so, as if she’d meant to say something more but then forgotten to do it. 

That was when Anthony had to take control of the situation. Wanting or not, he was now the man of the house, responsible for everyone who lived or worked there. He carried his mother to his room and put her to bed, just as he did later with his siblings, one by one, telling everyone they should take the day to sleep in. He made the calls and the arrangements for his father’s funeral that afternoon and then he returned to his father’s side and lied with Edmund for the rest of the day, without batting an eye, trying to memorize a face he’d never get to see again. 

When the sun set that night, Anthony was left with a new vision of his own life and new knowledge about his own mortality. Edmund Bridgerton had died at the age of thirty-six and Anthony Bridgerton simply couldn’t imagine ever surpassing his father in any way, even in years.   
***

November 24th, 1953

What Everyone Sees But Nobody Talks About Nº64

The Bridgertons are by far the most prolific family in the upper echelons of Great Hampton’s society. Such industriousness on the part of the beautiful Violet and her late husband (god bless his good genes!) is commendable, although one can find only banality in their choice of names for their children. A, B, C, D, E, F, G and H. Orderliness is, of course, beneficial in all things, but one would think that intelligent parents would be able to keep their children straight without needing to alphabetize them. 

Besides, the sight of all eight Bridgertons in one room is enough to make anyone fear they had one too many of those delicious mimosas Lady Danbury is famous for and are now seeing double, or triple, or worse. Never have I ever (and I am sure every single one of you will agree with me on this) seen a collection of siblings so ridiculously alike when it comes to looks. All eight of them have similar bone structure (and here I take a moment to shout—CONGRATS ON THE JAWLINE, YOU GUYS!), the same glorious chestnut hair and the characteristic chocolate eyes that makes me really hungry for something (and I will tell you this because I am nothing if not honest: the something I’m hungry for isn’t chocolate, oh no). 

Maybe we should pity Violet Bridgerton who now “seeks” advantageous marriages for her brood, as any proud mama of G. Hamptons does in this time of year, because she really didn’t anticipate the fervor with which young girls are now trying to impress her boys. I’ve seen things that really wouldn't be polite of me to report so, of course, I must do it. Here it is: Philippa Featherington got a new tattoo on the small of her back because she overheard someone say that Benedict Bridgerton likes girls with ink on them. He’s an artist after all, and artists are expected to have queer taste. 

But that is just a sneak peak on the things I have seen you do, people. I am always watching even when you can’t see me. So here I finish congratulating Violet for a family of such consistent looks. There are advantages to that, I say. To anyone who has eyes, there can be no doubt that the Bridgerton Eight are of legitimate parentage which can’t be said for some of the other families out here. 

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

XOXO

Hamptons Girl

 

That mysterious sheet of pink paper, currently known as What Everyone Sees But Nobody Talks About, was first delivered on everyone’s doorstep three years earlier. For two months it was delivered unbidden, every now and again. And then on the third month, every housewives of the tons waited in vain for the paperboys, only to discover that instead of free delivery, they were selling the gossip sheet for the outrageous price of three dollars a paper. Problem was by then the tons was addicted. They couldn’t live without the juice gossip that Hamptons Girl provided and somewhere some meddlesome woman was getting very rich. 

What Everyone Sees But Nobody Talks About was written primarily for women with a curious mix of commentary, social news, scathing insult and the occasional compliment. But what really set it apart was that Hamptons Girl, whoever she was, was not afraid to name names. There was no hiding behind abbreviations and nobody was safe from her spying eyes. If Hamptons Girl wanted to write about someone, she did, with no fear, no shame and, more importantly, no respect. The tons declared themselves scandalized, but they were secretly fascinated; none more than Daphne Bridgerton who had just started a business of her own and had no idea how to keep it aloft. 

“Aaaaaahhhh!!” Violet Bridgerton crumpled the pink page into a ball and hurled it across her elegant living room. The three of her daughters that were present (Hyacinth was at training) tried to keep a straight face and pretended to mind their own businesses. “Did you read what she said?” Violet demanded. “Did you?” 

Daphne, the eldest girl, eyes the ball of paper which now rested under a mahogany end table. “We didn’t have the opportunity before you, uh, finished with it.” 

“Read it.” 

Their mother was making her scary voice so Eloise, who loved reading What Everyone Sees But Nobody Talks About, dropped to her knees and reached under the end table. She smoothed the sheet of paper and read it aloud with the seriousness she was known for. 

Daphne looked at her mother. “It’s not that bad. It’s actually pretty nice when compared to what she wrote about the Featheringtons last week.” 

“Who’s going to want to marry you with her slandering your name?” Violet wailed, her arm slicing dramatically through the air. 

Eloise made a pig-like sound and Francesca gave her the stinky eye; she wanted everyone in their best behaviour when she was around. Daphne tried not to roll her eyes. In Great Hamptons, a respectable girl got married before her twenties. Daphne was two years behind on that. 

Did Daphne want to get marry? Sure. Maybe it was the way she was raised, watching her parents being so utterly in love that made her wish for that and a hundred babies more. But Daphne had a more urgent dream: Daffiness, her self made business that according to most people of the ton was perfectly named because it was, in truth, crazy and silly. 

It all started two years ago when Eric Macclesfield broke up with her after she let him do what they had both been dying to do since senior year. Daphne almost had a panic attack thinking of what her mother would do to her if she found out, when Francesca came to her assistance. Francesca was only sixteen then but she was a girl who obviously knew how to keep busy without calling too much attention. She took on the role of older sister that night and she told Daphne something she never forgot: “You know what really makes me feel better when a guy’s a jerk to me? New clothes. Let’s get you some.” 

Just so happen that clothes were a passion of Daphne, too. She liked drawing new clothes and shopping for the right fabric and sewing and making her sisters try on her ideas. And suddenly a dream was born, a dream that didn’t include marrying Macclesfield and having his retarded babies. It was a dream of her own that was beneficial to herself only. It was selfish and beautiful and it belonged to her alone. 

A year later, she had rented the back room of her favorite fabric store, that she kept with the allowance her brother gave her, and was already selling her designs. She started out selling hats (which were a great passion of hers, along with white sunglasses) but soon began to sell clothes after one particularly chilly day when she wore an old jersey she had made when she was nineteen and women came to her asking where she had got it. 

Daphne wanted to expand her business (it was past time) but she didn’t have enough money to do it on her own. To buy a shop she’d have to ask her brother for assistance and then BCorp would own a percentage of Daffiness which she was desperately trying to prevent. Not that she didn’t trust her brother, but he already had BCorp. Daffiness was hers and hers alone. The business was already tied with Bridgerton money since Daphne kept investing with what Anthony gave her, if she had to put more in it… Well, it would feel like a Bridgerton business, not a Daphne business. 

She was brought back to the present by Eloise who was now touching her hand. Daphne looked at her sister and knew she knew what she’d been thinking. Eloise always knew what everyone was thinking. Eloise was the most emphatic person who had ever lived. She understood everyone. And every man wanted to marry her. Question was: why didn’t Eloise want to marry anyone? 

“I’m sure whatever this Hamptons Girl wrote won’t influence anyone when it comes to you, Daff,” said Eloise kindly. 

“Easy for you to say,” Daphne muttered. 

“Yes, the Hamptons Girl has only been publishing for a year,” said Francesca as she braided her hair. “I hardly see how you can lay the blame at her door, mother.” She stopped and glanced at Daphne. “Sorry. It sounded less mean in my head, I swear.” 

Daphne’s fingernails bit her palms as she willed herself not to make a retort. Francesca was what Hyacinth called “an occasional bitch”. She meant no harm; she just had no filter. She liked pretty things, comfortable things and, especially, she liked herself a lot. Daphne often expected to find her making out with her own reflection. 

Violet pressed a delicate hand to her chest. “She cast aspersions on your parentage.” 

“Aspersions?” Francesca made a face. “Who even says that anymore, mother?” 

“She doesn’t,” said Daphne. “She said there can be no doubt that we’re all legitimate. Which can’t be said for most families of the tons.” 

Francesca ticked her tongue. “Don’t say tons, Daphne. Say Hamptons. Have some class.” 

“I wonder who she meant,” mused Eloise. “Which family is hiding an illegitimate son or daughter?” 

“It isn’t nice to speculate, Eloise,” Violet chastised. “And she shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

“She writes gossip, mom,” Eloise said. “It’s her job to bring these things up.” 

“Who does she think she is?” Violet added angrily. “Uh?” She planted her hands on her slim hips. “Hamptons Girl! I doubt she’s even from here. She can’t be one of us. No one of good breeding would write such wicked things.” And she looked at her daughters, one at a time, as if trying to get them to admit to being the Hamptons Girl. 

“I agree,” said Francesca standing up and going to check herself out in the nearest mirror. 

“Of course she’s one of us!” Daphne exclaimed. “How else would she know so much about the tons? Do you think she hired someone to peek in windows and listen at doors?”

“Please don’t say tons.” 

“I don’t like your tone, Daphne Bridgerton,” Violet said, her eyes narrowing. 

Daphne bit back a smile. That was Violet’s standard answer when one of her children was winning an argument. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she insisted, “if this Hamptons Girl was one of your friends.” 

Francesca gasped like that was unthinkable. Eloise grinned and shook her head. 

“Bite your tongue, Daphne,” Violet said. “No friend of mine would ever be so… so…”

“Honest?” Daphne suggested. “I’m certain is someone we know. No interloper could ever get the information she’s getting.” 

Violet crossed her arms. “I should like to put her out of business.” 

“The best way of doing that, mom,” said Eloise waving the pink sheet around, “would be by not buying her work.” 

“And what good would that do?” Violet demanded. “Everyone else is reading it. My puny little embargo would do nothing except make me look ignorant when everyone else is chuckling over her latest gossip.” 

“It’s true,” said Francesca. “Everyone else is completely hooked on What Everyone Sees But Nobody Talks About.” 

“I’m not,” said a male voice from the living room’s door. All four women watched as Anthony made his way toward his mother to kiss her on the cheek. 

“Where are you going?” Violet asked eyeing his suit. 

“I’m going to meet a friend. He’s recently returned to the tons.” 

“Ha!” Daphne shouted giving Francesca a winning smile. “See that? Even Tony says tons.” 

“Because he’s a man and a brute,” Francesca shrugged. 

Anthony smiled. “Fran, don’t bite the brute that feeds you.”

The girls laughed and even Violet allowed herself a smile. She wished her son a good day and he kissed everyone before leaving. 

Francesca seemed thoughtful. “Wouldn’t it be fabulous, though, if Anthony’s new friend wished to marry you, Daphne?” 

Fabulous for sure, Daphne thought. Fabulously unlikely.


End file.
